What is DDA HIG apartments

Keyword: live in india

As we drove towards Mumbai on NH8, a sign popped up in front of us: Mumbai 146km. Borivali 106km.

Like right now?

Then the premonition was given a name: we would live at the end of the world. Not even in Mumbai? Long ago Borivali would have been just a remote village, until the slippery Amoebe Mumbai closed tightly around it and made a "district" out of it.

A remote one, of course. And a smiley one. Borivali, eh? - and a spoiled smile plays around the lips of the Mumbaikar, as they call themselves here.
Because whoever is self-respecting lives as south as the bank account allows. In Bandra, for example. Or at least still in Santa Cruz.

So Borivali. From where it takes 55 minutes on the local trains to arrive at Nariman Point on the southern tip of Marine Drive. On Marine Drive, where offices, boutiques ... the essence of Mumbai have been fisted like the street lamps, whose gloomy lightbulbs represent the “Queen's Necklace”. This is a part of this city and one that Rahul sees every day when he rattles to the office. I, on the other hand, see, breathe and live in a different part of Mumbai.

We live in the cozy quarter IC Colony90% of which is populated by Christians. Here it is green and the streets lined with pavement stones (by the way, a brisk idea of ​​Mumbai, which I will talk about later) wind tightly and happily around small Aunt Esther shops, including several beef shops. Brokerage offices that bear the Christian name stamp. Jose Real Estate. D’Souza. And what they are all called.

On the Holy Cross Road There is a reliable supermarket next to a cafe. The streets are lined with heavy trees that harbor enough birds that I have already lost my first green and white head-and-t-shirt shit. Not (anymore) without my umbrella!
And they not only help against bird bombs, but also against the sudden lock openings through which fine threads of rain rush energetically to the ground. Umbrellas - mostly black tots that are sold here on every corner - are therefore part of the inventory of the ordinary Mumbaikar.

At the same corner where you can buy a folding tarpaulin against bird poop and the hard monsoon, the fish women sit in the morning with their flat bast baskets, in which the morning catch is sold to the residents of the IC Colony. While the fish women are waiting for customers on their little hooks, muscular, healthy cats squirm between the baskets and hope for a snack. In the air hangs the heavy smell of salt water, fins, gills and scales, which will stay there until noon, when the last fish have been sold. The vegetable sellers, who also sit on hoecks behind their perfectly stacked goods, are left behind.

Perfect. In the sense of "flawless". The okra are made into perfect bundles of three with rubber bands. A bundle changes hands for 7 rupees. It's perfect. It is essentially non-Indian.

We stroll past new apartment blocks with names like Rosebud, Casa Bella and Raj Castle until we turn into the street to Mansi Paradise. The way to paradise leads through purgatory. An enormous family of beggars lives on the corner, sitting on plastic chairs by the roadside and watching the day go by. Every day.

The singing elevator (more on that later) takes us to the third floor, where our apartment and socks are waiting for us. When we step in and pull aside the billowing yellow and white curtains and slide open the clear, beautiful French windows, we see a forest. We enjoy this wonderful view from every window. Green, dense, lush forest of leaves.

No, we don't live in Mumbai. Not in Borivali. But in the small, comparatively sleepy town of IC Colony, where it is quiet. Calmly. Tastefully. And green. And very different from what we both had imagined.

Categories General • Tags everyday life, borivali, india, mumbai, live in india